258 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
APRIL 45 
different light. I had listened to what a 
stranger said against him. Once, as I sat 
thus thinking, our eyes met, and never shall 
I forget the look in his ! It was a sad, pained 
question, blent with pride. A faint color 
rose in his dark cheek, and his glance fell. 
He left us early, and for a moment held my 
hand. 
“Edgar came to see me yesterday. Gooi 
night.” And he was gone without the kind 
smile, the warm, loving clasp, the tender 
words. * 
How glad I was to escape to my room! I 
gazed out at a sky blown clear from clouds, 
at the quiet stars, but there was no peace for 
me. Brandon thought that 1 had believed him 
guilty, and to-night he had been almost cold. 
I deserved it; 1 had spoken to him of a sub¬ 
ject which could only bring him pain in a sel¬ 
fish desire to obtain peace for myself; I had 
questioned him about the secret of his life. 
It was little wonder that I hid my face in 
agony and pain; he, the beloved brother of 
my childhood, held a place in my heart no 
other could fill; memories belonged to him 
that n 'i other could waken; I had never thought 
of losing him. My sorrow on losing Nevil 
had been bitter, but less bitter than was this; 
and in that time of darkness, the light shin¬ 
ing on me had come from him whose love I 
now had lost. The thought of his words, 
ever tender, ever helpful, of his deeds ever 
kind, of all his glances treasured in my heart, 
brought new bitterness, for how had I repaid 
him ? 
He could not help shrinking from me, when 
he knew what I had known; it must destroy 
the old confidence; he would feel uneasy in 
my presence. In his gentle consideration for 
others, he showed the delicate sensitiveness 
of his own mind, and the more refined a man 
is, the more acutely he suffers; what to rough¬ 
er and more narrow natures is a scratch, is to 
him a wound. How could I have listened to a 
word against my brother ? 
Morning: the day was dark and dreary; 
from the window I saw only a thin white wall 
of mist through which the trees loomed in 
fastastic shapes. We were all more or less 
low-spirited; aunt Dorothy because we were 
so soon to lose Edith; Edith, because the 
“ weather was disgusting;” I, because of Bran¬ 
don. When I think of the silent little group I 
we made, in the dark parlor, not even enliv¬ 
ened by our usually cheerful “five o’clock.” 
I remember also that coming events cast their 
shadows before, and am half inclined to be¬ 
lieve in presentiment. 
In the evening I wondered if Nevil or Bran- i 
don would come, until I grew tired of finding 
faces in the fire, and went upstairs for a book 
which was in my room. As I stood turning 
the leaves, and thinking that after all I did 
not care to read, I heard a tap at the door. 
“ Come in,” I said, and one of the maids en¬ 
tered. 
“ Ob. if you please, Miss Lovel,” she began, 
hurriedly, “poor Miss Edith—there’s been 
such a horrid accident!” 
“I have only this moment left her,” I 
cried. 
“Not to herself, miss, but to that gentle¬ 
man. Mr. Nevil Verner’s dying or dead!" 
For a moment the room seemed whirling 
round, and I grasped hastily at a chair, 
“ It cannot be, Lucy," I said. “ Who told 
you ?” 
“ If you please, miss, it was James Hen- 
ipy.” 
James Henley happened to be one of Lucy’s 
admirers; a strong young fellow, and with 
only one fault, that of spending too much 
time at the bar of the Club. I asked Lucy 
how he knew. 
“He was passing Kingston, miss, a little 
while since, and he see Mr. Lovel coming gal¬ 
loping out like mad, and the General’s groom 
riding a bit behind. James called to Merry 
what was the matter, and he said Mr. Vemer 
had fallen inio the river, and they got him 
out, and had taken him to the cottage, and he 
was dying, and there was something about 
Mr. Dana, too, but James didn’t catch what.” 
“ Don’t you think James has fancied this 
Lucy ?” 
“ I thought so at first, Miss Lovel, and told 
him so, but he was quite sure.” 
“ Has he gone away I” 
“Yes, miss.” 
“I think if anything had happened to Mr. 
Verner that the General would have sent to 
us.” 
“Perhaps Mr. Lovel will call on his way 
back, miss,” suggested Lucy. “ James said he 
was awful pale, and could scarcely keep his 
seat.” 
That, whatever, had happened, I knew to be 
an exaggeration; Brandon was not in the 
habit of displaying emotion when action was 
needed. 
“I am certain, Lucy, that if Mr, Verner 
were dying my cousin would have been sent 
for. Tell the others not to say anything, lest 
they alarm her or my aunt.” 
“ Then you don’t think it’s true, Miss Lovell 
They were saying downstairs that Mr, Bran- 
j don has been seat for to break it to Mrs. Ver- 
' ner; and oh! miss, the old dog howled under 
my window all night-” 
She broke off abruptly, for there was a 
slight rustle outside, and Edith entered, a 
litt’e pale, but perfectly calm, and Lucy left 
the room. 
“ What is the matter ?” said Edith, fixing 
her eyes on me, “ I heard you speak of Nevil; 
what is it ? You needu’t be afraid, for 1 never 
go into hysterics nor faint, so please tell me.” 
She stood before me so steadily and serenely 
that I told her, 6nd even than she did not 
falter. 
“It is not true,” she said, “men such as 
Nevil Verner do not die so easily.” 
“Oh! Edith, don’t! Suppose it is true!” 
“I don’t think James an authority; but it 
may be true, though why Brandon was sent 
for-’’ 
I repeated what Lucy had said, and my 
cousin’s lip quivered for the first time. 
“Kate—Edgar Dana! What shall we doi” 
“ We could send to the Cottage, Edith.” 
“On, no! I am afraid; and Branden surely 
would have sent a message had it beeu true. 
I daren’t semi! Oh! if it is t hat—I am respon¬ 
sible for Edgar’s sin. Don’t speak of it; it is 
not true. Wait until the morning. It can’t 
be true, so near my wedding day!” 
I thought of Nevil’s widowed mother, who 
idolized him; I thought of Elgar, and fear 
and grief oppressed me. 
“Do not be so troubled,” said Edith. “I 
am quite certain that the General wouki have 
sent to you had anything happened to Nevil. 
Brandon will come, so why need we distress 
ourselves. J ames Henley is the man who saw 
a gho3t, don’t you remernb ir $ This story is 
about as reliable as the other, and Lucy should 
not have repeated it. It’s a mere freak of Mr. 
Henley’s imagination— 1 some idea born of 
beer I’ ” 
“It would be better to send to the Grange.” 
“That would make me look like a love-sick 
damsel, if it is not true. To oblige me, do not 
send.” 
I endeavored to shake off the painful fear— 
to think with Edith that this could not be 
true ; yet every moment I expected to hear 
the clatter of horse hoofs, followed by a loud 
ring. No such sound disturbed me, and when 
Edith and I said good night to each other we 
knew as litt e as ever of the truth of the story. 
CHAPTER XXII. 
In the morning Edith greeted me with a 
smile. 
“1 knew it was not true,” she whispered. 
“Such thiugs only happened, I knew, in nov¬ 
els and she seated herself at the breakfast- 
table saying, aloud, “What will you do with¬ 
out me, aunt Dorothy f” 
“We shall be lonely. Kate, how pale you 
are !” 
“ Oh ! she is so soon to lose me,” said 
Edith, “or the thought of what present she 
should give is weighing on her mind. Any¬ 
thing but a bracelet, Kate. Lady Dana has 
any amount of those, so very likely I shall re¬ 
ceive one from each member of that family." 
In this light strain she continued, never 
displaying the least fear or uneasiness ; and 
when aunt Dorothy left us together she 
laughed at my gravity. 
“ How absurd you are ! If anything had 
happened, we should have heard from head¬ 
quarters before this. I want to finish that 
lace, so you shall read to me whilst 1 sew.” 
She seated herself by the window ; and 
willing to escape thought, I did as she request¬ 
ed, and, had read for some time, when she 
touched my arm. 
“ I told you so !” she said, staring through 
the window, “ 1 Whom the gods love die 
young;’ but all your tears and sighs are 
thrown away, for here he comes, and fresh 
as a rose is he !” 
I followed her glance, and beheld Mr. Nevil 
Verner coming up the avenue, certainly 
neither dead nor dying ; and seeing u“, he ad¬ 
vanced more quickly. 
“ What did Lucy mean f” cried Edith. “ It 
is not a spirit. Ghosts, as a rule, don’t carry 
walking-sticks. Do you remember a passage 
in Dickens, Kate—* The general feeling seems 
to be that it is a blessing Mr, Krook warn’t 
made away with, mingled with a little natu¬ 
ral disappointment that he was not V Why 
do I think of that now ?” 
“ Don’t, Edith ; it sounds so cruel !” 
“ Hush ! that’s his ring. Now, enter to soft 
music, pretty Prince Pattypan !” 
Nevil did enter, with nothing unusal in 
manner or appearance as far as I could see. 
“ I daresay,” he began, after polite inquiries, 
“ that you wonder to see me so early ? ’ 
“ A little,” replied Edith. “ We thought 
we were never to see you again, or hardly 
I ever.” 
“ Why f” he asked, after a somewhat lengthy 
pause. 
“We heard you were drowned, dear.” 
“ It did not affect you very much, then!” 
he said angrily. 
“ I didn’t believe it. There are some people 
who were not born to be drowne 1 ; they were 
born for higher things. But we had a little 
romance told to us.” 
“ Then it will not surprise you to hear that 
there was an accident yesterday, termin¬ 
ating fatally for some one. It might have 
been for me, but it was not ?” 
“ Glad you told me that last bit! said Edith, 
calmly. 
“ Edith, try for one moment to be serious. 
Some one was drowned. That one was Edgar 
Dana. 
She started violently, and grasped my arm, 
whilst Mr. Vemer fixed his eyes on her face. 
“ It is not true, Nevil !” she said, suddenly 
rising." 
“ It is true. I came to tell you.” 
“ Then tell me at once how it happened.” 
And Mr. Verner, leaning on a chair, and 
watching her closely, began in smooth, cold 
tones : 
“ Yesterday I was going to visit the Gen¬ 
eral and was walking along a path skirting 
the river. It was rather misty, and I could 
not see very clearly. T perhaps paid little at¬ 
tention as to where I was walking. However, 
I was near the edge, just where the water is 
deepest. A dog belonging to some laborers 
came rushing along, and in stepping aside to 
avoid it—for I have a horror of stran e ani¬ 
mals—I missed my footing, and-•” 
“ You need not be so minute,” interrupted 
Edith. “ 1 only wish to hear of him.” 
“ Very well,” said Nevil, with a sudden 
change of voice, speaking quickly, and al¬ 
most harshly. “ Mr. Dana was returning 
home from Roy ton, and being behind me, saw 
the accident. He plunged at once into the 
water. I cannot swim, and he had heard me 
say so once. The owners of the dog also 
came up, and one of them ran to the game- 
keepers’s cottage for a rope. Mr. Daua had 
kept himself and myself afloat. I grasped 
the end of the rope, and was drawn safely up 
the bank. They were about to assist Mr. 
Dana, but he was no longer visible. Cramp 
had seized him ; and when, after considerable 
delay, they did recover him, he was perfectly 
insensible. I had gone to the gamekeeper’s, 
and sent his boy to the cottage, whilst I got 
dry clothes and a little brandy. General Pol- 
wyn himself came to the river, and I went to 
the-” 
“ But Edgar ?” 
“ They took him to the cottage. The doctor 
was almost immediately in attendance, and 
found Mr. Dana unconscious from exhaustion, 
and doubted whether animation could be re¬ 
stored. He said also, that as Mr. Dana was 
suffering from heart disease or consumption, 
I forget which- 
“ Did he recover i” 
“ Eventually. He tried to speak, and they 
heard him say 1 Brandon ;’ so Mr. Lovel was 
sent for, and came at once. Mr. Lovel wished 
me to come here, lest some rumor of the acci¬ 
dent had reached you ; but I considered that 
my first duty was to my mother, and so drove 
to Nevil Towers. Later on I returned to the 
cottage, and ere I left it the poor fellow died.” 
“ What did Brandon say ?” 
“He seemed deeply affected, and never left 
the room for a moment. I could not have re¬ 
mained there. He stayed all night, and is 
there yet. General Polwyn seemed half dis¬ 
tracted. I had no idea that he thought so 
much of the unfortunate young man.” 
Edith did not answer. She sat down, cover¬ 
ing her face, whilst tears streamed hot and 
fast between her slender fingers, and there was 
not a sound in the room. Nevil stood with 
downcast eyes. I could scarcely realize it, 
that the frank, simple boy whom we all had 
liked was dead. But a few days had passed 
since I had spoken with him 1 
A faint sigh from Edith reacned me ; she 
had not looked up or moved, and Nevil shot a 
glance at her. 
“ Edith <” he said ; then, as she did not an¬ 
swer, he walked restlessly to and fro for some 
moments. “ Come, my deal’ Edith,” he said, 
finally halting, and laying his hand on the 
table, his calm, handsome face turned to her, 
“you will only make yourself ill with crying, 
and it can do no good. I am very sorry, I 
suppose we all are ; but grief so violent is un¬ 
necessary.” 
She rose now, the long wet lashes drooping 
on a cheek as pale as marble, but her head 
erect as ever. I do not think Nevil had ever 
before seen Edith cry, and he looked at her, 
biting his lip, for a moment, 
“Well,” he said, breaking the silence, “I 
trust you are better. You startled and sur¬ 
prised me considerably.” 
“ It is so very surprising that I should care 
about Edgar Dana’s death,” she said quietly 
but w ith the light of a rising anger in her clear 
gray eyes. “Did you expect me to laugh, 
Nevil I” 
“ Certainly not; but there is a medium in 
all things. I very much regret the young 
man’s death ; I daresay he had many good 
qualities, though I did not see them. He cer¬ 
tainly rendered me a service.” 
“ Poor Edgar, Kate. Can you realize it ? I 
wish with all my heart he were living now !” 
“ Really, Edith,” said Nevil, fretfully, “ you 
have cried enough. You wouldn’t cry more 
if I were dead ?” 
“ Not as much,” she answered, proudly. “ I 
had known him all my life, and all my life be 
loved me with a love on which death has set 
his seal.” 
Nevil ground his teeth, and a (lush mounted 
to his very brow. 
“Perhaps,” he said, with fast-gathering im¬ 
patience, “ this has been for the best. “ I have 
no wish to say a word against the dead nor 
am I doing so, when I repeat my previously- 
expressed opinion, that Mr. Dana was very 
presumptuous. He was, I fear, encouraged in 
that presumption. He vras young—that may 
account for want of wisdom ; no w that he is 
dead, greater faults can be forgotten, and I 
am quite willing to think well of him.” 
“Edith’s eyes flashed, and a spot of vivid 
color burned in her colorless cheek as she 
spoke. 
]To be continued .] 
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